


Drabbles

by Nath



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Birthday, Drabble, F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-01
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-19 10:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 7,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nath/pseuds/Nath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my drabbles on various Middle-earth topics</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Library

Five years it had taken to rebuild the Library after the great fire. No books had been lost, though it had been a close call, the Librarian remembered.

At least she had convinced the King not to move the collection to Pelargir, for her beloved, fragile books could not bear the damp southern air.

She did not relish the new suggestion of moving them to the Archives in Minas Tirith, though at least the air in there was suitably dry. But with Eldacar's Northerners marching on Osgiliath, it was the only way to save the books from a second fire.

* * *

Written for HASA's fifth anniversary on July 1st 2007.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a birthday request.


	2. Christmas play

She wondered if the Science Fiction and Fantasy Re-enactment Society was making a mistake with this year's Christmas play. Surely Lúthien shouldn't look like, to put it politely, an exotic dancer? Or Beren like a cheap version of Robin Hood? That they couldn't afford new costumes shouldn't be an excuse. She'd rather have been Leia again, but her suggestion had been ignored. Okay, John's Jabba costume was getting too shabby, but surely they could have painted it?

Sighing, she put on the costume, and walked on to the stage. At least the crowd would be enthusiastic, all twenty of them.

* * *

Written for the December 6, 2007 "There and Back again" community Advent calendar cue (a rather wellknown, though somewhat... errmmm... unfortunate painting of Beren and Lúthien by Rowena Morrill).


	3. Mithrellas

She tried to forget the first time she'd seen Imrazôr, and the way he had smiled at her when he had held first their son and then their daughter in his arms for the first time.

She loved him still, but to see the grey in his hair and the lines in his face broke her heart. It would not be long before they were parted forever, no more than perhaps fifty years. Too short, and then her children, elven-fair, but doomed to brief mortal lives, would be lost to her as well.

Silently, she slipped away into the night.

* * *

Originally written for the May 2007 Birthday Workshop for RiverOtter's birthday.


	4. Standard-bearer

Glorious their charge across these northern fields. Glorious too the moment they drew their scimitars. The day was theirs. Who could stand against the Great Lord's might or the strength of those who served Him?

He glanced quickly, proudly, at the standard he carried, the black serpent on its flaming red field. He could barely keep up with his lord as they rode to meet the charge of the Northmen that had come to the battle that very morning. He also saw what his chieftain had seen. The king's banner, too far ahead of his men. Theirs for the taking...


	5. Forty

Shivering in his wet cloak, Thorongil waited for the end of his watch. Standing guard in the misery of this drizzly Ithilien morning was not how he had envisioned spending his fortieth birthday. He doubted any of the men even knew it was his birthday, or they might have spared him the early morning watch.

Then again, he had found the sense of humour of these Rangers of Gondor to be as warped as that of those of the North, and had they known, they might have given him both morning and evening duty, to 'keep him out of mischief.'

* * *

Originally written for the April 2008 Birthday Workshop for Fliewatuet's birthday.


	6. Amends

The air in his lungs burned as he dove even deeper. In a reflex he closed his hand in a fist around the Ring.

Making sure the Ring was secure on his finger, he scrambled on to the western shore of the Great River, automatically checking for enemies. Where was he? The current had taken him further than he thought it would.

Evading the Orcs he knew were there, he at last collapsed to his knees in exhaustion. He had escaped, but at what price? Elendur, Aratan, Ciryon; lost to his arrogant folly. Weregild, he had said, weregild the Ring, now drenched in the blood of his sons, would be for his father and his brother. Precious, he had called it; paid for twice-over now in what was more precious than any gold could ever be. He should have listened to Elrond and Círdan.

He nearly turned around to fling the Ring into the river, but that would be folly compounded. Should he go on to Imladris? He already knew Elrond's counsel.

With a strangled sound halfway between a sigh and a sob, Isildur, High King of Arnor and Gondor, turned south and started the journey back to Mount Doom.

 

* * *

Double drabble; originally written for the May 2008 Birthday Workshop for Dwimordene's birthday.


	7. Peace

Who of his old comrades would have believed it? Him, a farmer? He himself certainly wouldn't have. Though he had taken to a Ranger's life like a duck to water, he was Minas Tirith born and bred, and had grown up surrounded by stone and paved streets. But then, after the War, he had finally married his Linneth, and now that it was safe again in Ithilien she had wanted to return to the farm her great-grandfather had lost there.  
No, he didn't miss the old days, Herion thought, even if farming was hard work; it was done in peace.

* * *

Written for RiverOtter's 2008 birthday request. Her prompt was: I would like to see the Fourth Age of Middle Earth. Any place, any character is fine.


	8. At the Sign of the Prancing Pony

Suddenly Frodo noticed a weatherbeaten stranger watching him from a shadowy corner. He was sipping from a tankard of ale, and an unlit pipe lay on the table in front of him. He wore a patched brown cloak.

"Who is he?" Frodo asked the innkeeper when he had a chance. "You didn't introduce him."

"Him?" Butterbur whispered in response. "Just one of the wandering folk; Rangers. Funny you should ask."

As Butterbur was called away, the stranger caught Frodo's eye and waved him over.

"My name is Halbarad," he said softly. "I am pleased to meet you, Master... Underhill."

* * *

Another one that was inspired by Dwimordene's 2008 100 word AU birthday request.


	9. Starting over

_Originally written for Vilwarin's birthday 2008. Her request was "someone someone settling in a new place - maybe even amongst a different people. Extra points if you write about a woman, preferably Arwen. If that doesn't inspire you, I'd be happy with something about the Northern Dúnedain."_

 _ **Starting over** : a vignette in three drabbles and a tribble  
_  
***

Even in the boat that took them towards the safety of the ships, Zamîn was still not sure whether she was doing the right thing.

"I shouldn't go, not yet. If Îbal comes back and doesn't find me there, he may think I too have been taken for questioning by the King's Men."

Her friend Inzil gave her a pitying look. Zamîn shivered and hugged herself as she looked back towards the quay. "Oh, you're right. I'm deluding myself. Îbal is dead or will be soon, as will all the Faithful who stay now. Pharazôn will not show them mercy."

***

The previous nightfall had been the worst yet. Not even the Eagles were visible in the West, only a cloud of deepest black obscuring the Sun's light without warning.

That morning, Zamîn had gone on deck to escape the oppressive air in the hold, and so she saw the fire burst from Meneltarma as the doom of the Valar struck Númenor. She was ushered into the hold before the storm that would drive them towards Middle-earth hit the ships. Yet as she looked at her home one last time, Zamîn had seen the approach of the Wave in the distance.

***

What had Pharazôn's pride unleashed? The devastation wrought by the fury of the sea was clear even to one who had never seen Ennor's coast; the line that marked the furthest reach of the water was miles from the shore, the land between littered with uprooted trees and debris.

Zamîn stared in horror at this proof of the wrath of the Valar; yet though she mourned her home, remembering the Darkness that had ruled Númenor, remembering the Temple in Armenelos and the blood-stained altars, she also rejoiced that at least that Evil had been cleansed from the face of Arda.

***

Despite their own losses from the angry waves, the Elves who dwelt in these lands had been quick to help the Dúnedain settle near Lake Evendim, where some of Númenorean descent lived already.

Zamîn's skill as a woodwright was in great demand in their new home, and she made her living making looms and other household goods, as she had in Númenor. After some time, she found her gaze would often linger on the man who made the weights for her looms, and she thought he looked at her with interest too, but at first she dismissed the idea. No matter how Baran's smile warmed her, she still grieved for her Îbal, and to wed twice was, if not unheard of, at least more than slightly improper.

Yet when she confessed her worries to Inzil, her friend laughed at her.

"Zamîn, forget about proper," and Inzil raised her hand to show a narrow ring of silver.

"Who?" Zamîn asked, both shocked and happy for her.

"Ulbor. He lost his wife and son to the altars. He wants to start a farm in the hills south of here, so we decided we will make a new start together." Her friend looked at her before continuing. "But you should grab your chance also. You're young, you're barely sixty, and you can still have more children. Îbal would not begrudge you any of that."

The next day, when Baran came by again, claiming he needed to know how many weights she would need in the next months, she returned his smile. Inzil was right. The past lay buried under the cold waves. They did not live here by choice, but there was no reason Ennor could not be _made_ to be home. And Baran was a good, solid man. Things would work out.


	10. Fly on the wall

"Is there food spoiling in here?" Aragorn asked.

Arwen sniffed the air carefully before she answered. "No, I do not think so. Why?"

"All these flies." Aragorn indicated the walls of the room, which were indeed playing host to several scores of flies.

"Odd. Our chambers seem particularly prone to them," Arwen said. "I shall instruct the chambermaids to air the apartment more often and to make certain there is never any food left on trays."

She did not add that the infestations always happened when her husband was less than fully dressed. That could only be a bizarre coincidence.

* * *

This was originally written as a comment on Linda Hoyland's drabble [Indigo](http://lindahoyland.livejournal.com/165108.html), where I expressed the desire to be a fly on the wall.


	11. Dawn

Faramir felt almost disappointed when he looked east at the dawn. The morning was grey and overcast, shrouded by thick cloud.

Somehow, the first dawn after Sauron's fall should have been bright, glorious, not this washed-out trickle of light from under an ashen blanket.

Then he turned to look at the Houses of Healing, and he thought of the woman with hair the colour of the Sun who slept there, the mere recollection of her golden hair and the brightness of her smile enough to chase away any regret over the sunrise.

He sighed. He was well and truly smitten.

* * *

Originally written for the October 2009 Birthday Workshop for Raksha's birthday.


	12. Restraint

"Too cold to chase'em. Let the damn tarks freeze."  

They think I don't hear them, my orcs, but I do. Their whining does not bother me, though, as long as they obey, and do so swiftly.

And cold? I suppose it is, by the cloudy breath that escapes from every living creature, but it is a long time since I either needed breath or felt the weather of the world.

There is a deep trail in the snow, leading north towards the Ice Bay. _Sometimes prophecy needs no outside help. Let Arvedui last-king find his own doom. Fornost is mine._

 ***-/-***

Originally written for the January 2010 Birthday Workshop for Aruthir's birthday.


	13. Destiny

Soft grass under my feet; gold-green dappled light. The air under the trees still, unstirred by breath of wind.  

The silence almost thrums in my ears.

I turn, and catch my breath at his beauty. Not an Elven beauty, nor yet the beauty of the lad – for yes, he was beautiful then – blurting out his boyish adoration, but the valour and strength of a man full-grown; not just _man_ , but _Man_ , _Mortal_. And yet...  
As his eyes meet mine, I know that he, too, senses the moment, and I know my destiny. I shall indeed be as Lúthien.

 ***-/-***

Originally written for the January 2010 Birthday Workshop for Princess of Gondor's birthday.


	14. Archer

Faramir winced as Éowyn's arrow glanced off the edge of the target. She was not normally a bad archer, but with that miss tallied against her, it was impossible for him to _not_ win their match. Warrior-bred, she would certainly spot it if he deliberately missed his shot.

Could he feign a pulled muscle or another sudden injury? No, she would see through that too.

Slowly, deliberately, he tensed his bow and took aim. Diplomacy be cursed. He would give it his best shot, and if that meant he would sleep in a guestroom for a week, so be it.

 ***-/-***

Originally written for the January 2010 Birthday Workshop for Imhiriel's birthday.


	15. Old habits

"Orcs in the High Pass? Are you certain?" Elladan sounded almost offended at the idea as he questioned the scout.

Elrohir had laughed. "What? You thought they would not return to the mountains? There are only a few, but we should not let them re-establish themselves in their old caves."

Still, even despite his doubts, Elladan had been quick enough to ride out, and now they were sneaking up on their foes and scouting out the camp before going back to get the rest of their patrol. The twin Lords of Imladris easily fell back into their old habits of stealth, and it was not long before they were positioned above the camp, looking down on the Orcs.

 _Almost like the old days_ , Elrohir thought.

 _I haven't missed this at all_ , Elladan answered.

 _Nor I_ , Elrohir admitted. Yet it seemed it would take more than a few years of peace to forget the skills that had kept them alive throughout the whole of the Third Age. He wondered if they could ever leave this part of themselves behind, but accepted that even after Sauron's fall they would only be able to do so when the time came to sail West.

 ***-/-***

A double drabble, originally written for the January 2010 Birthday Workshop for Jay of Lasgalen's birthday.


	16. Lessons

"What is this I hear about not turning up for your Quenya lessons?"

Boromir squirmed under Denethor's gaze, then mumbled something he could not quite make out.

"Boromir, answer me."

"But Quenya is boring! And nobody speaks it anymore. Why should I have to learn something that's useless?"

"Useless?" Denethor stood up, maintaining his stern mien. "Then, when you are Steward, how will you read old records and reports of battles long ago?" He understood his son all too well, he feared. The boy was not dumb, but he had no patience for anything that was of no immediate use.

"Others can read them and tell me what is in there."

"How will you know they speak the truth?"

Boromir looked thoughtful, until his expression turned almost triumphant and he exclaimed, "But Faramir will be my chief councillor and he _likes_ Quenya. He can read those old texts for me!"

 ***-/-***

Originally written for the March 2010 Birthday Workshop for Elena Tiriel's birthday, and posted in the HASA Birthday Forum as "Not a Scholar".


	17. Messenger's doubt

I raise my hand to draw my men's attention, yet before I give the order, I waver. I _know_ this is the right decision. To go on would only lead us to founder among these fog-ridden rocks that bar our path, where every wave can bring unseen disaster.We _should_ go back. We may reach the Havens – if my measure is not off – before the worst of winter's storms. Rest, heal our own hurts and Vingilotë's, try once more when the winds of the world are favourable again. Yet every time I return home, my resolve to attempt this again lessens.

It is only a moment of doubt, and even these men who know me well will not have seen it, will only think I pause to draw their attention fully.

"We go back," I say at last. _We fail whether we continue on our path or turn back_.

 ***-/-***

Originally written for the April 2010 Birthday Workshop for Gilraen's birthday, the prompt " _someone traveling, exiled, delivering a message, or in a new place - anyone who's away from home and misses it (or not)_ ".


	18. Council

_A council chamber in Minas Tirith, TA 2076_  
\---  
"It matters not. Whether he calls himself Prince of Dol Amroth or Lord of Belfalas, Galador is still a loyal liegeman of Gondor."

"Are you certain, Lord Steward? He would not be the first to use the dea...disappearance of the King to attempt advancing his own fortunes."

Mardil shook his head. "Belfalas alone is too weak; where could he turn for support? Umbar? They'd use Cobas Haven as a bridgehead for an attack, and as soon as they were established in Belfalas, get rid of him. He may be young, but I doubt Galador is that much of a fool."

\---

Originally written for RiverOtter, who requested _stories about Dol Amroth (preferably the early days)_ for her birthday.


	19. Dancer

Dark Lord on his dark throne, he watches, mesmerised despite himself. Already his minions have fallen into slumber.

I scarcely dare breathe as I move. I scarcely dare move, yet I do.

Dance! Do not think. _Dance_.

Yes, look at me, Morgoth. I know your thoughts. I know the price should I fail. Look at me. Am I not comely? Melian's daughter, fair Lúthien? Am I in your dreams? Do you dream of taking me? Do you dream?

Watch. Listen to my song. Follow my every move.

And dream. Let yourself be soothed, for a while.

Watch. Listen.

Dream.

 _Sleep_.

\---

Originally written for Erulisse's birthday. Her request: " _...stories that focus on early days - prior to the Last Alliance. Pull back all the way to the time of the Two Trees if you desire._ "


	20. Shelter

Panting, Tuor fell to his knees. _Even if they overtake me now, at least I will die in freedom_.

It was not long before he regained his breath enough to raise his head. Still gasping for air, he laughed with delight as he saw where he had run. This was the path that led to the caves of Androth. He was _home_.

Life here had been harsh, growing harsher as the grip of the Easterlings on Mithrim tightened, yet Annael had been as a father to him, fostering a stray wanderer not even of his own kind, sharing what little they had. Annael and his people were long gone, but in his heart Tuor kept the memory of the kindness the Elves had shown him.

If the caves had not been discovered, they could shelter him again; it would be lonely by himself, but for an outlaw it would do.

\---

Originally written for Dwimordene's birthday 2010. She requested: _It's been awhile, I fear, but this May baby would be interested in the notion of adoption. The first adoption of sentient beings occurred when Eru adopted the Dwarves; later on, Maglor adopted Elrond and Elros, Bilbo adopted Frodo, Elrond fostered and more or less served as an adoptive father for Aragorn, etc, etc. So something about the taking on of children not your own, or perhaps even going beyond kids to animals or some particular part of nature that becomes a part of the family. Make your story personal or give it a broader social reading or a cosmological one - whatever you think might be interesting._


	21. Living Rock

A stone has no heart, no feelings, it is said. Perhaps not, and yet...

I may have _been_ before I became aware, but the first I know is change, separation… being.

Then _becoming_ , changing again. Edges, slivers, grains of loss, and when it ends, I am yet somehow more than plain rock. I am also aware of _not_ -me, for it is not-me that changes me. The not-me is also aware, I know, but unlike me. It makes others like me, and we are placed together.

Approval from the not-us, and then warm air and cool wind, and so we sleep.

*~*~  
We are woken by a swaying.

Then heat.

Too much heat.

Something in me cracks along a deep fault, yet I am still whole. Then a tearing away.

I am alone.

Cool air around me, until I strike something harder than I am, and the fault gives way. Parts of me break loose, scatter and are gone.

Cold liquid seeps over my surface, and widens the cracks of my fall, and I lose even more of myself.

Yet I still am, and I remember.

 _Deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone_.

* * *

A/N:

The last line is a direct quote from _The Fellowship of the Ring; the Ring goes south._

This double drabble was written for Maeglin's birthday. His request included:

 _...a story featuring 'nonstandard' sentient beings of Tolkien's world; e. g. dragons, vampires, werewolves, eagles, horses of the Mearas, etc. - but not  Men, Hobbits, Elves, Dwarves, Orcs, Trolls, Maiar, etc.  Any setting (either in place or time) is fine._


	22. Temptation

"I don't know," the Dwarf said as he looked at the ring the stranger held out. "The value far outstrips..."

 _He is mad. A bejewelled ring for my hospitality? If he wants to avoid obligation, a copper penny would suffice for the bread and cold meat we shared. Yet his madness may be my luck._ He started to reach out for the proffered jewellery, but stopped. _Unless he wants_ me _beholden to_ him. _But the gold is fair, as are the opals set in it. And does not gold beget gold? This ring could further the fortune of my house…_

~*~~*~

 _Just take it, rock mole of Aulë_ , Sauron thought, smiling kindly as he tried again. He must still appear both benevolent and harmless, at least until the trap was sprung. "It is a mere bauble, but it is a sincere token of my gratitude for your kindness to a wayfaring stranger." _If the other six are as hard to give away... Are not Dwarves supposed to lose all sense when they see gold?_

He attempted a weary sigh. "Had you not aided me, Master Dwarf, I would surely have perished. What is the value of gold against a man's life?"

 

* * *

This double drabble was written for both HASA's eight birthday on July 4th – the theme for the request "giving" – and for the [July 2010 Nuzgûl of the Month](http://henneth-annun.net/forums/messages.cfm?confId=0&forumId=917&messageId=53594).

 


	23. Taste

Written for the November 2010 LotR-GFic Challenge; the theme was "pairs" and my prompts "sweet, sour".  
\---  
 **Taste**

Victory should be sweet, not this hollow feeling that was akin to defeat, Elrond thought, bidding a relieved farewell to the land where they had fought and died for close to ten years. Sauron was defeated, but the price at which that victory had been bought might yet turn out to be too high, for Gil-Galad was dead, and Elendil and his son Anárion, and Oropher of Greenwood, and too many others to count.

Elrond's mood turned even more sour as he glanced at the camp of the Númenoreans. Isildur had rejected his counsel and kept Sauron's Ring. _Weregild indeed_.


	24. Eyewitness account

Written for Azalais' birthday, 4 December 2010.  
\---  
 **Eyewitness account**

"But what of the Elves?" Merry asked, poised to take notes for his book.

Arwen answered first. "Rivendell knew when the hobbits crossed the Misty Mountains and moved to the Angle."

"I doubt an Elf of Mirkwood ever saw any of your ancestors while they lived in Wilderland," Legolas replied next, looking faintly embarrassed. "They lived quietly, doing no harm, and we never sought them out. In truth, we did not consider Mortals our business then, and would only act if any encroached on the Forest. After the Last Alliance, we were long unwilling to look to the wider world."


	25. Begetting day

"Begetting day? Wait, Elves celebrate their _what_?" Rose asked incredulously.

"Our begetting day," Legolas replied calmly.

"So everyone, once you have children, everyone knows that you, _when_ you…" She turned red.

"But Rose, you and Sam have nine children; do not tell me that you have any embarrassment about how you got them?"

"No," she said, though her blush belied her words, "But we hardly announce it to everyone either. That's just wrong."

"To us, our way's entirely proper," Legolas replied.

"Well, if you say so," Rose gave in. "I still think it's an odd way to go about things."

*~*

Written for Jay of Lasgalen's 2011 birthday. Her request was "Elves marking their begetting day in some way - child or adult, happy or sad. Inclusion of any of my favourite Elves (Elladan, Elrohir or Legolas) would be a bonus, but it can be about anyone."


	26. Needlework

"You make a tiny stitch across the wire, back to front, and pull it tight."

 Arwen watched her mother's hands closely. "Like this?"

 "Yes," Celebrían replied, "But even tighter, so the thread pulls a small loop of the metal wire through to the back."

"Show me." Arwen turned over Celebrían's work, then looked at the back of her own sampler. "Oh, like _that_ …" She copied the stitch. "Can I learn how to make the wire so thin also?"

Celebrian examined the work. "Yes, well done. We will leave the wire for tomorrow. You cannot do everything at once after all."

-*-

Written for Imhiriel's 2011 birthday, for the prompt "someone having managed a special achievement in a skill and/or knowledge."


	27. Broken

The Ring is gone, but Frodo remembers Its whispers – cajoling, tempting, sometimes threatening, but always there as It broke him to Its will. The Ring had led Boromir to his doom and the breaking of the Fellowship. Surely It had attempted to suborn the other members of the Fellowship also? What about Aragorn? Had It not spoken to him, or had Aragorn refused to listen?

And beyond the Fellowship... Faramir was Boromir's brother, yet he had been deaf to the temptations of the Ring. "I would not take this thing, if it lay by the highway," he had said, and Frodo believed him. What strength did Aragorn and Faramir possess that Boromir lacked, that _he_ lacked? Or must he compare himself with Gollum, rather than with Boromir, for Gollum was once a Hobbit…

 _Enough!_ he tells himself. Cannot the Ring cease preying on his mind? Can he not have peace even now It is gone? He stops a sigh before it can escape. Yet even so, he draws a worried glance from Sam, and he forces his hand towards the jewel that the Lady Arwen gave him, and clings to the hope that he may find peace in the West.


	28. untitled (Eldarion)

Aragorn caught Arwen's glance as they watched Eldarion at sword practice. _He treats this as a game. Yet how can it be otherwise in these days of peace?_

"Real battle is not a practice match with a friend. He'll learn soon enough."

Eldarion quickly defeated his opponent, then laughingly helped him stand up again.

"He needs better opponents," Arwen said. "Perhaps…"

"No," Aragorn said, "He would _expect_ your brothers or Glorfindel to win. I'll find him some wily old sergeant to spar with." 

"Age and cunning?" Arwen asked, smiling.

"And the lesson to not underestimate an opponent by his looks."


	29. Treat

All around her people tucked into their food with relish, but Éowyn could barely hide her distaste at the content of her plate. She _liked_ offal, but there was something about sheep's lungs that turned her stomach. Unfortunately, this dish was her uncle's favourite and he insisted on it being served when it was available.

She glanced around the table as she steeled herself for her first bite, and inadvertently caught the Worm's eye. Normally she avoided his glance, but on this one thing they were agreed and there was nothing feigned in her own sympathetic nod at his grimace.


	30. Rest

They could not go on much longer. The survivors of Ost-in-Edhil were at the end of their endurance, and needed shelter and rest even more than they needed food.

Elrond stopped, listening to the distant murmur of the river Bruinen as he considered their path. The lands between here and Lindon were empty and hostile, even if they followed the Dwarven road west. But where then? The north offered no shelter, and the mountain passes were held by Orcs. But there were deep valleys at the feet of the mountains, where they could lie low for a season or two…


	31. Too deep

" _Still_ nothing," someone muttered.

"There is more mithril here, I'm certain," Farin said, though he too was beginning to lose hope. "We will find the vein again."

"How much further will you have us dig through rock bare of even a glimmer of ore in pursuit of a _hunch_?" That was Lófar.

"Ten yards," Farin replied.  "If we find nothing, I give up on this vein, and I owe you a year's work in return. But if we do strike mithril, you owe me three-quarters of the rights to this shaft."

A long pause, but finally…

"Agreed. Ten more yards."


	32. In the telling

Glorfindel was so intent on the performance that he nearly jumped out of his chair when Elrond put a hand on his shoulder and leant over to whisper in his ear, "Stop glowering at Lindir; it is hardly his fault that our guests wanted to hear the Fall of Gondolin."

"That is not it," he replied just as softly. "I do not mind the topic, merely that he is wrong on nearly everything."

He sighed at Elrond's disbelieving glance, then stood up, drawing the attention of all in the Hall of Fire.

"Let me tell you how it really was."


	33. East

Galdor was unsurprised that Círdan would see him immediately upon his return from Rivendell, even if it was in the middle of the night.

The Shipwright wasted no time on courtesies. "What was the decision of Elrond's Council?" he asked as soon as Galdor entered.

Galdor's reply was equally abrupt. "It is going East."

"East?" Círdan's expression was guarded, and Galdor wondered what went through his mind.

"To make an end of it."

"Then we can but wait, and guard the Western road, lest it be an evil end." Círdan sighed. "Mithrandir, I hope you are right," he added softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for the July 2011 Birthday Workshop at HASA for maeglin's birthday.


	34. Name

**_Name_ **

_To the Inn._  

The command echoed in his mind.

He tasted the sweet memory of heady wine, felt the wind as it rustled through rows of grapevines in the sun, heard someone call his name as he entered the inn he once...

He tried to catch the name. Too late… gone.

It had been gone a long time, taken by his Ring. He had _become_ the Ring, and then It, and his self, had been taken from him. Yet the Ring – and with it, his Master who held his Ring – still held him.

Inside, Frodo stirred and woke up briefly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the September 2011 Nuzgûl of the Month Challenge at HASA, the theme "Pub Crawl"


	35. Namesake

"Look at him. Is he not the finest foal you've seen in a long time?" Léof beamed as if we were looking at his own offspring.

I looked at the spindly-legged colt suckling at his dam's teat. Indeed, a fine-looking beast; not unexpected though, with his grandsire one of the Mearas. Even so, I shook my head. "He is, but you are out of your depth and out of your mind naming him after a king of old. And if our lord hears of it, who knows..."

"Théoden is hardly Fengel to see slights where none are intended," Léof replied.

"True," I allowed, still unhappy. The king had been more than reasonable when this one's sire was born after one of the Mearh stallions had escaped and got at my mare when she was in heat. By rights he could have claimed the foal, leaving me with only recompense for the breeding. Instead I was allowed to keep him, and even breed with him, although his foals would not be counted among the Mearas. I sighed. "But it is bad luck to change a horse's name once it has been spoken aloud, so his name is Brego, right or wrong."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double drabble, written for a Challenge, the theme 'namesakes'.


	36. Seasons

Today is Eruhantalë and thus the end of summer. The weather is as fair as it was yesterday, and will be fine for days, perhaps weeks.

Yet I feel no joy, not at the day and not at the weather. As I feared – and against my counsel – the King will not go up Meneltarma to offer Thanks to Eru.

Manwe's Witnesses fly high over Meneltarma, and as I glance up I feel a chill in my heart that the warm sun cannot dispell. Tomorrow I ride back to Andúnië. I can only hope Númenor weathers the storm that is brewing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written as a birthday drabble.


	37. Dark Elf

Not for him the Halls of Bannoth. Even were he so inclined, the tale that had seen him cast off the heights of Gondolin was not yet fully told. He would wait, and perhaps his curse would run true, and he would be avenged.

Long he waited; long he watched. Finally, patience found reward, and he saw Maeglin cast down from the same rocky height that had been his own end. Suppressing an unexpected flash of anger that _his_ son was slain by a mere Secondborn, he allowed himself the satisfaction of an "I told you so" as Maeglin died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written as a birthday drabble, had to include the phrase "I told you so".


	38. Light

Flowering hemlock umbels gleam palely in grey glades among tall birch trees. Silvery white, foggy grey, darkest green, shadowed black.

She dances. Her arms, her face shimmer white. Her dress, pale as wispy fog, clings to her limbs. Her hair flows around her, black as the shadows under the deep green of the trees.

There are brighter colours back in Menegroth, the bright reds, yellows, blues and greens that appear only in light of lamp or torch. She cares not. The stars are all the light she needs to dance.

He plays for her. While she dances, who needs light?


	39. Happy Birthday!

"Happy Birthday!" Merry didn't know what reaction he had expected, but it certainly wasn't a sigh and a gloomy expression. "Pippin! What is it?"

"I hoped you'd forget."

"Forget? Why?"

"I did myself; forget, that is. Until this morning," Pippin looked quite distressed.

"But you remembered, didn't you?"

"But I have no presents for anyone."

"Do you really think that matters, Pippin? Frodo and Sam will understand, and no one else here knows our customs that well."

"But I would know. And I think Strider knows about hobbit birthdays. And Gandalf."

Now it was Merry's turn to sigh. "Stubborn Took."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a birthday request


	40. Ice Queen

Snow. She just couldn't like it, no matter how pretty it looked in the sunlight.

"Come out here, mother! It's fun!" her daughter called, waving to her.

No. She did not mind them playing, but they would have just as much fun without her. Likely the memory of the Grinding Ice coloured her perceptions, yet she had no desire to confront this particular dislike. Yet it felt churlish to stay inside as her husband and daughter frolicked in the freshly-fallen snow.

Again, an insistent wave and a call to join them.

With a sigh, Galadriel gave in and went outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a birthday request.


	41. How bad can it be?

_How bad can it be?_ Legolas wondered as his horse negotiated the steep path into Imladris.

He didn't look forward to the completion of his task, but it would be no more than an uncomfortable day or two while he delivered his message. The worst of it was behind him, though he could not shake off the consequences. Five guards slain, and all for that creature Gollum. Confessing to Mirkwood's – and his own – failure was nothing compared to having had to bring the news of the guards' deaths to their families.  Compared to that, this would not be too bad.

= = = = =

Thranduil would be displeased, Legolas knew – right now, it was easier to consider him as his king than as his father. As if the way in which he had fulfilled his mission to bring word of Gollum's escape to Imladris wasn't enough, he returned with a Dwarf, not just as travel companion, but as one he called friend! Relations between Mirkwood and the Mountain were better than they had been for some time, and would no doubt improve further, but that was politics.

Of course, he didn't know how Gimli felt about this either.

_But how bad can it be?_

* * *

_Double drabble written as a birthday request_


	42. Anything at all?

"Anything about your father? Anything at all?" Pippin had hoped Faramir would not ask, but now that he had, Pippin would have to answer.

"Of course, I didn't know him very well," he started hesitantly, "And in a way I don't think he took all that much notice of me. I was a novelty, and my swearing to his service was a way to get at Gandalf, at Mithrandir, for him. Although I think he, he also valued it as – if you like – atonement for your brother's death." Pippin stopped. He was babbling, he knew it, but Faramir only nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for a birthday prompt


	43. Patience

Arwen catches herself pacing and laughs. One would think that she has enough experience of Aragorn's absence to bear it more easily, yet after forty years of betrothal and twenty of marriage, she is still this impatient for his return.

He will tell her how the campaign went as soon as they have time to sit down in private, but at least she already knows that he is unhurt – which is not always so. She sighs and turns her mind to practical concerns; the returning army will need to be housed for a few days before the men return home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for a birthday prompt.


	44. Circumstances

As he carefully wrote a reply to Círdan's latest message, Tuor was glad of having taken the time to learn back in Gondolin, even if he doubted he'd ever develop a fair hand.

Idril had been appalled when she found that he could neither write nor read, but Annael's Elves had no such luxuries as paper or parchment in their cave, nor, in the struggle to survive, would there have been time to teach him. The Easterlings did not write, beyond tally marks, and even if they had, they wouldn't have taught a slave. Tuor shrugged. That was the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for a birthday challenge


	45. Heat

Before coming to Harad, Aragorn thought, he would have said he had a good tolerance for heat. Now he knew that he had never known _real_ heat. Oh, it could be warm at home, but summer heat there was usually dry. Gondor was warmer than Eriador or Rohan, but here... out in the sands the wind felt as if it came from a smelting furnace, and in the greener lands further south, the heat was said to be so moist it made breathing nigh impossible.

Yet the Haradrim bore it, and so must he. Aragorn sighed and turned south again.


	46. Persuasion

"Think you Father will be able to sway Olwë?" Telufinwëasked.

"If he speaks as well as he did in Tirion," Macalaurë replied, "I do not see why not."

Both the twins nodded in answer. "Then we better prepare to go on board soon," Pityafinwë said with a grin. "Father can be _very_ persuasive."

Curufinwë ignored the talk among his brothers. It mattered little. In the end, even if the Teleri did not join them, he did not doubt that Father would take the ships. _Need makes right, and we have no time to spare the craven or the indecisive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written as a birthday request.


	47. Meet us in Bree

"There's strange things happening in the Chetwood these last few days," the villager said. "Shapes like Men, but glowing... Most unnatural." He shook his head.

"Probably something from the Downs," another muttered, shivering. "Best steer clear until they're gone."

In a dark corner of the Common Room, two Rangers sat.

"Wights?" Aragorn whispered with a grin.

"Elves," Halbarad replied.

"At least we know where they are now," Aragorn said. "But wait... days? They were supposed to meet us yesterday."

"Well, I'm not going out into the rain tonight," Halbarad replied. "There's a warm, dry room upstairs. Tomorrow is soon enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written as a birthday request


	48. The Hunter

"The _Hunter_?" Tinmê laughed. "You believe in the Hunter?"

"Tanô says the Hunter is real and his mother has seen him."  Terên looked around the circle of children, daring anyone to say they didn't believe her.

"When?" Ailin asked.

"A long time ago, when the Leavers still lived here," Terên replied.

"That's like saying it's made up," Tinmê scoffed. " _Every_ story happened when the Leavers were still here."

"Do you want to tell the story then?" Terên said to Tinmê, who shook his head vigorously. Even if this was made up, Terên was their best storyteller.

Leaning closer to the fire and lowering her voice so the others had to lean in as well, Terên began.

"Twas stormy and wet, and Ninkwi – that's Tanô's mother, for those who don't know – had gone to meet with Belek – Tanô's father – in the forest. And when they were sitting there kissing, suddenly the Hunter appeared on his big white horse and chased them deeper into the forest. They ran and ran, the branches of the trees whipping at their faces and the wind howling behind them." Terên paused and looked at the others.

"Why'd they go into the forest in the first place?" one of the youngest girls asked.

"Because they wanted to kiss each other," Ailin replied.

"Kissing is dumb!" the younger child replied.

"Ssshhh!" Ailin smiled. "Let Terên continue the story."

Terên smiled also, and went on. "They only stopped running when they could no longer hear the Hunter behind them. By now they were very far from the village, and it took them a long time to get back. But when they came near the place where they had been kissing, the forest was all burned, with broken trees and everything, and there were three dead _orku_ there…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This tribble was written for a birthday and a Challenge.


	49. Snow

"What is it with you Númenoreans and snow?" Círdan asked, smiling, as they watched the delight of the men in their camp.

"You would call this snow?" Elendil retorted, but he, too, was smiling.

In truth this wet slush was barely worth the name, Elendil thought, but he doubted Mordor would oblige by giving them a perfect fall of dense, not quite dry, flakes that were the best for making snowb… Curse it, now _he_ was doing it.

In Imladris, before the armies marched, he had helped young Valandil make a snowman. He missed his adoptive home and its winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for a birthday


	50. Fools

"Stubborn fools," his father had muttered when the Dwarves strengthened their defences and hardened their hearts.

Yet Legolas could not help but wonder. How would any of them have acted? He tried to put himself in Thorin's place, home and riches taken from him, his people slain or surviving in exile. And then to regain home and heritance, and have them threatened immediately again? Nay, stubborn the Dwarves were, but foolish?

Legolas shook his head as he picked up his bow. At least now they fought Orcs and Wargs, not these Dwarves. That battle was altogether more to his liking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for a birthday.


End file.
